


Forty Days

by disdainfreely



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Wolffe trusts Plo, non-Jedi treat clones badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-20 23:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disdainfreely/pseuds/disdainfreely
Summary: Plo is called back to Coruscant, and the 104th are left under the command of a new temporary General.This new General doesn't understand that not all regulations are meant to be enforced.





	1. Chapter 1

Ten days under the command of a natural born who isn’t his Jedi. Who isn’t Pack. But Plo was called away and this sector needs to be guarded. Wolffe is cautious. Wary. The last time he took orders from someone who wasn’t Plo, he lost an eye. He’s lucky he didn’t lose more. He’s determined not to let the same thing happen to his men. 

And it doesn’t. Not so obviously, anyway.

There are no suicidal attack plans.

Just endless enforcement of regs that usually get ignored.

Crackdowns on illicit datapads and contraband snacks.

Confiscation of dearly coveted materials. Extra blankets and pillows, Comet’s paints, Hunter’s soft rags that he uses to make little nests, all the extra supplies Scalpel’s hoarded for little injuries, Sketch’s needles and inks.

Wolffe argues. He fights. He does everything except physically attack his temporary superior.

For nothing.

To be dismissed like his objections mean nothing.

He retreats to the barracks to comfort his vode, to be angry with them, and to listen to their hopes that Plo will come back soon. Wolffe hopes so too.

Twenty days under the command of a natural born who isn’t his Jedi.

Apparently satisfied with the regulation nature of their possessions, their General moves on to them.

More specifically, their relationships.

There are random inspections, unknown even to Wolffe, spot checks meant to catch vode not in their bunks.

They are in bunks, of course. Just not their own bunks. It’s not something Plo has ever tried to stop because he’s Pack and he understands that they need each other. Most generals don’t try to stop it from what Wolffe understands. It’s not really worth it.

But this one tries, with spot checks and punishment details that even extend to Wolffe when he’s caught in Hunter’s bunk, spooned up against him to try and provide some comfort for his vod’ika. 

Morale crashes. Wolffe can’t even try to make any of it better. He has to sleep in his own bunk, for once alone. Sleep comes slowly and brings nightmares. He wakes shaking and gasping, somehow safely in his bunk and not suffocating in a ruined escape pod.

He knows he’s not the only one.

He tries to confront their General, tries to explain how badly they need these things. He even refrains from cursing or yelling. It’s an impressive show of restraint from Wolffe. 

It doesn’t work.

He’s ignored and dismissed and Wolffe can only stand there, fists clenched as he tries to keep himself from launching himself at this natural born who thinks he knows the vode better than they know themselves. 

When he returns to the barracks, the hopeful looks from his vode just about break him. He can only shake his head and look away as their faces fall. He’s failed them. He’s supposed to be able to take care of his men, his Pack, and he can’t.

He leaves the barracks and goes to run around the track until his legs can’t carry him a step further. In the end, he hauls himself back to his bunk to suffer through another night of nightmares.

Thirty days under the command of a natural born who isn’t his Jedi. 

Wolffe has never been so grateful not to be seeing action. The casualties would be astronomical. Even so, more and more vode appear in the medbay with complaints of exhaustion and all the stupid sorts of injuries that follow. Wolffe tries to help, tries to ease what duties he can, but he can’t do anything about their craving for touch and comfort that’s so cruelly being denied them.

Forty days under the command of a natural born who isn’t his Jedi. 

Forty days, and the order that Wolffe has been dreading comes down.

No paint on armor. Uniform whiteness is to be maintained.

That’s the final straw.

Wolffe will not submit to these orders.

Wolfpack will not submit.

Every bit of paint on their armor was hard-earned and lovingly applied. It will not be taken from them. Not while Wolffe still breathes.

Wolfpack revolts.

There is no bloodshed. There doesn’t need to be, not with Wolfpack’s fierce and unshakable loyalty to their commander. An entire ship of clones against their one natural-born non-Jedi officer? No contest. Once their so-called General is restrained, tossed in the brig, Wolffe heads to the comm station to make a long-overdue call.

“Commander Wolffe, I am surprised to hear from you,” Plo says in greeting. Wolffe’s knees go weak at the sound of his real General’s voice. Plo will understand. Plo is Pack. He always understands.

“Sir--,” Wolffe beings, then falls silent. He’s not a man of many words, but it’s unusual for him to be at this much of a loss for them.

“Wolffe, what has happened? Where is your commanding officer?” Plo asks. Wolffe can see that familiar wrinkle around his eye covers that means he’s concerned.

“Sir, we need you back here,” he manages, “as soon as possible. I’m sending you our coordinates now.”

“I’m on my way. Hold fast, my Wolffe,” Plo says, and ends the call.

Wolffe’s legs give out beneath him and he finds himself kneeling in front of the comm station and shaking from some heady combination of fear and relief.

Plo arrives quickly enough that he must have left the moment the call ended, and with him comes an unexpected visitor.

“General Windu, sir,” Wolffe says, saluting sharply.

“Commander,” Windu greets him.

“Wolffe, what has happened?” Plo demands, and Wolffe swallows hard. He’s grateful for his bucket and that he insisted to his vode that he should meet their General alone.

“Sir--,” Wolffe tries and fails to explain and falls quiet.

“Commander. Where is your commanding officer?” Plo asks with immeasurable patience.

“The brig, sir,” Wolffe replies.

Windu’s brows rise in disbelief. “The brig?”

“Yessir.” Wolffe keeps his gaze dead ahead, the way he was drilled on Kamino. It’s easier than trying to make eye contact, even from inside his bucket.

“Why is he in the brig, Commander?” Plo asks.

He doesn’t sound angry or frustrated, but rather as if he is asking Wolffe for something routine, like a status update about supplies or troop movements.

“We had to, sir,” Wolffe says. “We didn’t have a choice.”

“Tell me why.”

Wolffe risks a nervous glance at Windu, who is frowning, but seems more concerned than angry.

“He...”

“Look at me, Commander Wolffe.” Plo’s voice hardens slightly, just enough to catch Wolffe’s full attention.

“Sir.” Wolffe’s focus does indeed snap to his General.

“Report, Commander. What has occurred in my absence?” Plo straightens to his full height, looking down at Wolffe.

“Sir,” Wolffe straightens to full attention. “He...he confiscated contraband, sir. He enforced bunk assignments. He...demanded armor uniformity. We--I objected. I ordered him confined to the brig. The men were only following orders, sir.” As he speaks them aloud, Wolffe realizes how lame these complaints sound. Complaining about a superior enforcing regulations? Pathetic.

He hopes Plo understands, that he can see these changes for the cruelty they are.

There’s a tense moment before Plo speaks again. “Commander Wolffe, did he order you to remove your paint?” His voice is suddenly tight with anger, a crackle of ozone hot on the air.

“Yessir,” Wolffe replies immediately. He fights the urge to take a step back. He’s never been this intimidated by his General before.

Windu seems taken aback as well for a moment before he turns back to Wolffe. “Return to the barracks, Commander. We will come speak to you after we have had an opportunity to read all the reports.”

“Yessir,” Wolffe salutes sharply and turns to go.

“Commander.”

Wolffe stops dead in his tracks, turning back to look at Plo. “Sir?”

“You will never have to remove your paint. That will never be something I will require of you.”

The strange ozone smell seems to be dissipating. Wolffe relaxes slightly.

“Yessir.”

“Return to your brothers. We will speak later.”

“Yessir.” Wolffe salutes once more before heading back to his brothers, a weight lifting off his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

Plo Koon is a Jedi Master and member of the Jedi Council. He’d like to think that years of training have allowed him a firm grasp of his emotions and fears.

Receiving the call from Wolffe is enough to remind him that no one has total mastery of themselves. He’s forced to start reciting the old Jedi mantra: fear leads to anger. Unfortunately, here, it’s not his own fear causing anger; it’s the fear he can hear in Wolffe’s voice. It’s a fear he’s never heard from his Commander, not even after the attack by the Malevolence.

“I’m on my way. Hold fast, my Wolffe,” Plo says and ends the call. He has to take a moment to breathe. Then he calls Mace Windu. His fellow Master is renowned for his dedication to his own men, who are currently on leave on Coruscant.

He needs someone to accompany him, if only to help keep his head clear. The 104th has an uncanny ability to undermine all of his years and decades of emotional restraint. Mace, thankfully, agrees to come, and even more thankfully doesn’t comment on the urgency in Plo’s tone. He doesn’t ask anything until they’re underway, starfighters headed directly for the coordinates Wolffe gave Plo.

“Why do you think your Commander called you?”

“I do not know, but I could sense his distress. Wolffe is a steady Commander. For him to call me, something drastic must be wrong,” Plo says. Mace makes an affirmative sound. 

“We can only hope it’s nothing too dangerous.” 

“We can.” Plo is less optimistic, but it’s hard not to be nervous with Wolffe’s distress still ringing through the Force.

His sense of his men’s distress only increases as he and Mace land their ships in the hangar bay. He can tell Mace can feel it too. Fear is hanging heavy in the air. Fear and despair.

Plo had long become accustomed to the steady presence of his troopers in the Force, the sense of community and determination that permeates the whole ship. He’s been gone for forty days and it feels like something has fundamentally changed.

Wolffe greets them alone, radiating wariness in a way he hasn’t since their first meeting.

“Wolffe, what has happened?” Plo asks and feels his chest tighten as Wolffe struggles to answer. “Commander. Where is your commanding officer?”

“The brig, sir.”

Plo is gratified to have an actual answer, even if it doesn’t really help him much. Wolffe is still avoiding looking directly at him, and Plo takes a moment to make sure his tone is level before he can continue.

“Why is he in the brig, Commander?” Plo asks.

“We had to, sir. We didn’t have a choice.” Wolffe’s voice is pleading, like he needs Plo to understand, but he’s not giving Plo any of the information he needs. From his normally direct Commander, this level of ambiguity is concerning.

“Tell me why,” Plo says. He needs to know what’s happened, what’s brought his Commander to this. Wolffe’s attention turns to Mace and Plo changes his tone to the military cadence that he knows Wolffe will to respond to. “Look at me, Commander Wolffe.”

“Sir.” Wolffe’s attention is piercing and immediate.

“Report, Commander. What has occurred in my absence?”

“Sir,” Wolffe seems hesitant to begin, but once he does, the words come spilling out. Regulations being enforced that to outsiders would mean nothing, but Plo can feel Wolffe’s misery bleeding into the Force like an open wound.

The true horror hits at the mention of armor uniformity. Plo has seen the reverence with which his men apply their paint, the ceremony they hold for all incoming troopers to give them paint of their own. He’s seen his men grieving, lovingly cradling helmets of the fallen and running their fingers over worn gray lines. 

“Commander Wolffe, did he order you to remove your paint?” Even getting the words out is a challenge as rage threatens to choke him, and the Force is swirling around like it’s just waiting for him to reach out and grab it.

“Yessir,” Wolffe says.

Mace reaches out in the Force, pressing in a calm and serenity that Plo can usually maintain himself. Plo has to breathe and try to contain the feelings that he can’t tamp down.

“Return to the barracks, Commander. We will come speak to you after we have had an opportunity to read all the reports.”

Plo has to be grateful to Mace for taking over while he regains his composure. But still, he can’t let Wolffe go without a reassurance that Plo would never do this to him.

“Commander.” He waits for Wolffe to turn to face him. “You will never have to remove your paint. That will never be something I require of you.” He takes a breath and forces himself to reach for the calm he’s supposed to be able to maintain.

“Yessir.”

“Return to your brothers. We will speak later.”

“Yessir.”

Plo can feel Wolffe’s relief singing in the Force as he goes. Plo turns back to Mace.

“We should speak to the interim General. I had not thought him a cruel man when I left.” Plo sighs. He should have asked Wolffe before he left. Wolffe hadn’t liked the last natural born officer he had reported to, and that man had cost Wolffe his eye. Plo should have asked Wolffe what he thought of this man, but the call back for Council business had been so urgent that he hadn’t even thought of it. 

“Well, something happened while you were gone,” Mace responds. “I can feel the fear and sadness here as strongly as you can. Your men are suffering, and they violated regulation and incited a mutiny. Something pushed them to it.”

Mace takes a breath; Plo copies him. They need calm and focus before they can accomplish anything, and Plo knows this, but it’s still difficult to tamp down the urge to rush to fix whatever is so distressing his men. 

“We should check the records and see what changes he made in my absence,” Plo says finally.

“After you.” Mace steps aside to let Plo pass.

Plo leads the way to his office. They don’t run into any clones on the way, which is unusual, to say the least. Plo can only assume the men are trying to avoid him.

It’s a painful thought.

Mace closes the door behind them to allow them some privacy. “Let’s check any disciplinary files and see what’s been going on.” 

Plo takes his seat and has a moment of realization that the seat has been adjusted for a being much shorter than he is. Hardly a surprise, most humans are, but it’s somehow annoying all the same. He ignores how his knees are now jammed against the bottom of his desk and logs into the system, looking for entries by his temporary replacement. Mace comes to read over his shoulder.

“Anything?”

“Patience, Master Windu,” Plo says, feeling a sudden burst of inappropriate humor. Mace gently squeezes his shoulder in support. The gesture is steadying and appreciated. 

A deep breath, and Plo can begin to look at the daily reports filed while he was gone. The first few days are innocuous, with brief notes of shift changes and routine maintenance.

“Nothing too alarming, unless your men mutiny at rivet inspection,” Mace says mildly.

“I think not,” Plo replies. He keeps opening reports until something catches his attention. A mention of contraband confiscation. Wolffe mentioned something similar in his complaints. He scrolls through the report until he can find a list of items taken.

Plo is very well aware that his men keep contraband, items ranging from snacks to hobby supplies. He’s never bothered to try and stop it. His men have so little that Plo can’t justify taking anything from them. How can he, when they are only just now beginning to have access to anything beyond the sterile walls of Kamino?

“What did our friend confiscate from your men?” The distaste in Mace’s voice is evident.

Plo pulls up the list.

CT-3257--five cans of paint and associated materials

Comet. Comet’s paint was taken, that precious hoard of 104th gray and the few others colors he’s gathered. He’s not yet acquired any surface to paint on other than armor, but Plo knows he’s been looking. 

CT-6193--assorted blankets and other contraband fabric

Hunter. Even more obviously traumatized than many of his brothers, he can only sleep either pressed in with others or in a nest of his own making, mostly constructed out of blankets and scraps of ruined clothing from the others. A scouting mission gone wrong had left him exposed and alone for too long. Plo knows how afraid he is of ever being alone like that again.

CT-1144--medical supplies

Scalpel. One of their medics. He delights in discovering alternative medical methods and other ways of extending their always-short supply. Plo has seen him talking to everyone from doctors to shamans on various planets they’ve ended up on. He’s hoarded a healthy supply of herbs, teas, and salves aside from his regular kit.

CT-1321--inks and tattoo needles

Sketch. Their resident tattoo artist. Most regiments have one, from what Plo has picked up, many with heavy stylistic influences from wherever they’ve been posted. Sketch tends to favor Mandalorian designs. He’s been joking about figuring out how to tattoo Kel Dor skin, even if it means he has to go to Dorin to do it. 

Almost every single member of the 104th is on the list and has had something taken from them. Things Plo would never dream of taking. Even pictures and messages from other brothers. Plo has to sit there in silence for a moment to compose himself. Thankfully Mace has been reading over his shoulder so he doesn’t have to repeat it.

“He certainly kept himself busy. Anything else?” Mace asks. His voice has managed that dangerous level tone that usually precedes a lightsaber activation.

Plo knows there must be more. Wolffe mentioned further grievances, and this, cruel as it was, wouldn’t have been enough to spur Wolffe to call him back. It would have dispirited the men, but they would have soldiered on had this been all. 

“There must be,” Plo says, dreading whatever it is.

“Commander Wolffe mentioned contraband being confiscated, but so far no mention of bunk assignments or uniform armor,” Mace says, sounding like he’s dreading this as much as Plo. “If this is what he gets up to a week after you’ve left, I’d hate to see a month.”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what we’re about to see,” Plo says as he opens the next batch of reports. 

Luckily, Plo doesn’t have to read too far to discover what happened next.

The entire ship is filled with surveillance devices. Every room is monitored, including the barracks. Three places onboard have access to the footage: Plo’s office, the bridge, and the security center. Plo himself doesn’t normally look at the footage unless he’s given a reason. He has other things to occupy his time and he likes to give his men what privacy he can.

His replacement apparently had no such compunctions.

Plo opens the indicated file. It’s video of a regular evening in the barracks, nothing Plo hasn’t seen before. Men crammed into shared bunks, curled up like puppies in a basket. They do all have bunk assignments, but Plo knows they don’t adhere to them. Boost and Sinker, on the footage, are nestled together and trading kisses. Other brothers drift from bunk to bunk before they settle, some by themselves but most cuddling up to another brother. Even Wolffe is cuddled in against Hunter, clearly offering comfort in the face of Hunter having lost his extra blankets. From what Plo can see, Hunter has somehow acquired more blankets fairly quickly, but it only takes him a moment to realize that many of the other bunks have no blankets. Various brothers clearly donated them, and isn’t that a punch to Plo’s heart.

It’s soft and warm and though they’re clearly still feeling the loss of their possessions, they have each other.

Plo physically aches at the pain he knows is going to follow. 

Indeed, even as he watches, the officer who replaced him steps into view. On the screen, Plo watches his men spring to attention in the presence of their superior officer. Wolffe steps up to meet him. Plo can see the tension in his shoulders, though he’s trying to keep it contained. Plo can’t hear the words being exchanged; there’s no audio. That doesn’t mean Plo has no idea what’s being said. He can see the defensiveness in Wolffe’s stance, the way he’s trying to stand in front of all of his brothers when he obviously can’t block them all from view. At the same time, the rest of the Wolfpack is bristling, moving to support their Commander. Plo knows these movements. They usually lead to a concerted attack almost immediately afterward. There’s a particular gleam in Wolffe’s eye that’s making Plo concerned. 

However, before any violence can break out, Wolffe steps back and with that the tension breaks. Plo can see the despair settling over the men as their return to their assigned bunks, each man curling up alone under the standard issue regulation blanket. Apparently part of the conversation involved an instruction to Hunter to return all of the blankets that had been given to him.

Plo stops the footage. There are more files flagged, but Plo doesn’t have the heart to watch them. He doesn’t want to watch their spirits be crushed further.

Mace stands in silence with him for a long moment.

“We have to look at the rest of the reports,” Mace says.

“I know.”

Plo does know, but he doesn’t want to. He scrolls down the reports, looking at the list of official reprimands.

CT-2534 and CT-5418.

Boost and Sinker. As expected. Plo has never seen them sleep separately.

CT-6193 and CC-3636.

Hunter and Wolffe. Plo shakes his head. Wolffe was officially reprimanded for his attempt to comfort his frightened brother.

The names continue. It looks like every single member of the 104th was written up at least once, if not multiple times. Boost and Sinker seem to be the most frequent offenders, until all of a sudden they just stop. Plo risks a look at the old security footage dated after their last reprimand and sees them sleeping separately, both curled up as small as possible. The same footage shows Hunter tossing and turning, clearly in the grip of a nightmare.

He’s not the only one.

“They are suffering,” Plo says, voice tight.

“You knew that before we arrived,” Mace says, hand resting on Plo’s shoulder. “You did know it.”

“I did,” Plo agrees, not looking up.

His men are suffering. They are suffering because Plo left them. Mace squeezes his shoulder again.

“I know it’s difficult to accept, but this was not your fault.”

“I am responsible for these men’s welfare. If we must use these men to fight and die for a war they have no stake in, the very least I must do for them is protect those few comforts they have managed to find for themselves. Those connections have been taken from them to satisfy the ego of a petty man while they were supposed to be under my protection.” Plo finishes speaking and realizes that he’s unintentionally raised his voice. 

Mace’s hand leaves his shoulder. “Come meditate with me.” 

“We need to finish reading these reports and decide what to do with the officer my men locked in the brig.”

“Meditation will clear our minds and allow us to consider all the relevant factors impartially,” Mace says. 

Plo considers, then shakes his head. “I cannot regard this matter impartially. I have a responsibility for the welfare of these men. Commander Wolffe was acting in the interests of the entire 104th, and I will not disregard that fact.”

Mace looks at him for a long moment. “Are you suggesting we punish their officer instead?”

“In a just world, yes, but I am aware of reality. I am proposing that he be reassigned elsewhere under heavy supervision and I resume command of the 104th,” Plo says, carefully steepling his fingers. “It is no less than you would do for any of your men.”

Mace’s ferocious devotion to his men is well-known. There is no galaxy in which Mace would allow his men to suffer like this.

“We are supposed to remain impartial,” Mace sighs.

“Well, impartially speaking, there is little logic in demoralizing an exceedingly effective unit for the sake of enforcing minor regulations.” Plo stands. “Now, I need to see to my men. May I ask you to make the call for his reassignment? I fear that I...lack impartiality.”

Mace smiles tightly. “I can handle that. He can likely return to Coruscant with me. I assume that you will be remaining onboard The Courageous?”

“You assume correctly,” Plo replies. “After I tend to my men, may I join you for meditation? I fear I will likely need to recenter myself.”

“Of course. I’ll start making arrangements to get him off your ship.” Mace claims Plo’s vacated chair.

“Your assistance is appreciated,” Plo says, before going to find his men. 

As he expected, anyone without a post to be at is in the barracks. He can feel their fear clouding the Force as he approaches. It’s a cold, choking feeling, one he hasn’t felt from his men since he, Wolffe, Boost, and Sinker were trapped alone in a single escape pod. It’s not something he ever wanted to feel from them again and certainly not while they’re off-duty in their own barracks.

Plo stops outside the door and knocks politely. “May I enter?”

The door has opened almost before he’s done speaking and he finds himself face-to-face with Wolffe.

“You’re always allowed in the barracks, sir. You’re the General.”

Plo can hear the lingering wariness on Wolffe’s tongue as he says those words. Looking past him reveals that all the rest of the men are standing beside perfectly made bunks at strict attention.

“I will leave you, if you wish, but I do need to speak with you about what transpired in my absence,” Plo says patiently.

Wolffe hesitates for a moment before stepping back to allow Plo entrance. “Yes, sir.” He’s clearly still uncomfortable, but it’s a start.

Plo steps into the room. “At ease, all of you.” He watches them drop out of their parade-perfect stances and mourns how little more than a month ago, he could walk into the barracks to check on his men without anyone jumping up to salute.

“Did you want to speak in my quarters, sir?” Wolffe asks. Plo shakes his head.

“I think I would rather discuss it here with all of you present.”

Wolffe seems surprised, but obediently stays. Plo resists the urge to draw Wolffe into his arms and reassure him how very much Plo cares about him. He knows how much the clones crave touch, and how much casual contact they exchange, but right now they’re angry and hurt and afraid, and it’s Plo’s fault.

“I owe you all an apology,” Plo begins. “When I returned to Coruscant, I had no idea that the man I left in my stead would treat you so cruelly. Had I known, I never would have left, and I should have asked you before I left if you were comfortable with him. You all have been hurt by my negligence, and for that I can only apologize and beg for your forgiveness.” Plo shifts to look directly at Wolffe. “I owe you an apology most of all, my Wolffe. I left you in an untenable position and there is nothing I can do or say to make what I did right. All I can promise is that he is leaving and I am resuming command. I will not enforce any of the...regulations that he prioritized and I will return those things that were confiscated from you.”

Wolffe is quiet for a long moment, holding Plo’s gaze, before he looks down. “What of my punishment, sir?”

“Your punishment?” Plo asks, surprised.

“It wasn’t just Wolffe, sir. We were all involved,” Sinker blurts out despite Wolffe’s withering look. “If you’re going to punish Wolffe, you have to punish all of us, sir.” 

“He’s space sick, sir. Doesn’t know what he’s saying. I’m responsible for the mutiny,” Wolffe says steadily. “I will take whatever punishment you see fit, sir.”

Plo can hear the sharp intakes of breath from several men, no doubt imagining the worst case scenario. Court martial. Reeducation. Decommission. He has to take a moment to breathe through the sickening combination of rage, grief, and overwhelming love that swamps him.

“My Wolffe, there will be no punishment for you or for any of your brothers. You were defending each other. I could never punish you for that.” 

Wolffe’s eyes widen and he stares at Plo, suddenly unguarded. The tension that’s been holding the room seems to shatter and Plo finds himself with an armful of Wolffe, with others pressing in around them.

Plo holds Wolffe tight and feels his Commander’s relief sing the Force, a pure, clean note echoed by the relief from his brothers.

“I will never allow this to happen again, I swear,” Plo says, cupping Wolffe’s face and tipping it up so Plo can make eye contact with him. “Never.”

“I know, sir,” Wolffe says. His one human eye is glassy with unshed tears. “We wanted to believe you wouldn’t leave us like that.”

“Never,” Plo swears again and hugs Wolffe close. He has to go meet Mace, but for now he can bask in the sureness that his men are safe here with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed! Feel free to come find me on twitter under the same handle. I also take writing commissions, so don't hesitate to get in contact. :)


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